


pretty eyes

by its_nochillforov



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (i think), 5+1 Format, Canon Compliant, F/F, Happy Lesbians, MilaSara, background emimike, i love these two ok, ice girlfriends, saramila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 13:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11532780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_nochillforov/pseuds/its_nochillforov
Summary: Sara Crispino has pretty eyes. This is a fact.Or,Five times Mila gets caught up in Sara's violet eyes, and one time Sara returns the favor.





	pretty eyes

I.

Sara Crispino has pretty eyes. This is a fact.

Mila has been well aware of this fact since she was fifteen years old and Yakov told her to talk to some of the other juniors skaters before the end of the competition, because he had some stuffy conference to go to, and she said she would rather _socialize_.

So Mila stands at the entrance to the room where all the other girls are scattered, scuffing her tennis shoes unceremoniously against the doorframe.

A shadow falls over the carpet before her, and Mila looks up in time to see the stranger widen her eyes with curiosity.

The girl gracefully holds a hand out. She’s taller than Mila, by a couple inches, and the deep tone of her skin looks positively beatific in the somber light of the room.

Belatedly, Mila realizes she’s supposed to take her hand, and so she does, hoping her palm isn’t sweaty.

“Hello,” the girl says, and her voice is like whipped cream on hot chocolate, “my name is Sara. You are?”

Mila clears her throat and spouts out “Mila” before she can make a fool of herself.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mila,” Sara smiles, and Mila’s mouth goes dry, even though she _just_ drank from the water fountain outside, “is this your first time here? You look new.”

It is, in fact, Mila’s first time at the Junior World Championships, and she also happens to recognize conveniently that the girl she is speaking with just took bronze in the senior division.

“Yeah,” Mila manages, “um, hi.” Eloquent. Her English, she knows, is not by any standard amazing, but it’s better than whatever’s currently coming out of her mouth, or at least it should be.

Thankfully, Sara seems to find it amusing, and she tinkles out a laugh. It sounds like the wind chimes that Lilia has (used to have) on hers and Yakov’s (now just Yakov’s) front porch.

“I could introduce you to some of the other women,” Sara offers kindly, and gestures at the others occupying the room. Mila nods.

Sara, it seems, has wonderful manners. She has a habit of looking Mila right in the eyes when she's speaking, and Mila would revel in how much of a difference it is from Viktor’s offhanded remarks and Yuri’s ever present snark, but instead she's too busy getting lost staring into Sara’s purple eyes.

Sara doesn't really seem to mind.

 

 

II.

Mila’s lacing up her skates, just a few minutes away from taking the ice at her first Europeans, when she sees a familiar flash of dark hair in her peripherals.

Despite herself, she cranes her neck, searching for it again.

Sara picks her way rinkside, congratulating people and shaking hands and generally being a delightful person. Mila is forcefully reminded of her own awkward, nervous conversation with a competitor twenty minutes ago, in which she almost forgot her own name when asked.

Mila pushes that aside. That's not for dwelling on.

Sara smiles directly at Mila. When did she get so close? Mila straightens, adjusting her team Russia jacket self-consciously, and offers a smile back.

“Good luck today,” Sara says, “I’ll be watching.”

For some reason, this gives Mila prickles along her spine. “Okay.”

When Mila skates out to the center of the rink, settling into her starting pose with an arm curled above her head and another wrapped around her own waist, she idly scans the scattered few rinkside.

One of them happens to be Sara, her arms braced on the boards.

Even from this distance, Mila can see the violet of Sara’s eyes clearer than ever, unblinking.

Mila almost misses it when the music begins.

 

 

III.

2017, NHK Trophy: Osaka, Japan.

Final Listing:

  1. Sara Crispino
  2. Mila Babicheva
  3. Someone that Mila wasn’t paying attention to



It isn’t her fault. She was busy. Sara had skated fifth (Mila had gone third, so she had time to take off her skates and change out of her costume before hurrying back rinkside), and after that all Mila had thought about was watching Sara skate. Then it was watching Sara in the kiss and cry. Then it was watching Sara watch the other skaters.

Mila vaguely recalls Yakov asking something about the third place skater, but Mila can’t be bothered to remember exactly what was said, because right then Sara had walked past, and Mila’s mind was caught simply on following her.

Maybe to say hello. Maybe to find a hotel room and never leave it. Maybe somewhere in the middle. Probably, she would have to compromise with somewhere in the middle.

She steps away from Yakov, who has given up on chasing after his skaters since Vitya’s and Georgi’s third major competition.

She falls into stride with Sara easily, alternating watching her feet and staring at Sara’s face.

Mila clears her throat. “Hello,” she begins, because she’s eloquent like that, “nice to see you here.”

Sara shoots her a bemused smile. “Lovely indeed. What a coincidence, assigned to the same event, hm?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Sara stops. Mila realizes they’ve reached the exit to the arena. Cold air seeps past the doors to brush at exposed skin, but Mila hardly notices it.

“Are you coming with me?” Sara teases. “You’ll probably have to tell your coach.”

A few scenarios flash through Mila’s mind right then, and on a whim, she makes one of those split-second decisions that she definitely learned from Vitya, that Yakov will definitely have her doing suicides later for, but it’s fine because it’ll mean she gets to spend the night with Sara. That’s _definitely_ worth it.

She follows Sara dutifully out the door, minding to pull her phone off and shoot off a quick text to Yakov - _I’m going out with Sara Crispino, see you later!_ \- and then silences it so she doesn’t have to hear her phone go off with Yakov’s responses for the next hour.

“Tell me something, Mila,” Sara suggests, after a short silence of an entire block’s length.

Mila almost misses a step in the sidewalk. “Um - what?”

“Something about yourself. I want to know you a little better.”

Mila tries so, so hard to keep her breathing under control. _It isn’t my fault_ , she defends to her own traitorous self, _she’s too pretty_.

“I’m - I’ve lived in Saint Petersburg for five years,” she says hesitantly, “and I lived in Sertolovo before that, a little town outside of the city.”

Sara hums with interest. “Did you like it better in Sertolovo? Or did you like the city better?”

Nobody really ever bothers to ask Mila that. It had always been a given that she would move to Saint Petersburg after signing on with Yakov, and her family had been so happy to see her succeed that they had never asked if she wanted to come back (she knows she would have said no, but she realizes it would have been nice to hear them ask it).

“I think… they both have their ups and downs, you know?” Nervously, Mila directs her gaze to the buildings around them, instead of trying to focus on the mesmerizing shifting of light across Sara’s hair and how soft her skin looks.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Then, after a pause, “I suppose it’s fair I trade you something about myself too, yeah?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Sara stops their stroll, turning to push past the door to a little shop that Mila hadn’t even noticed. Mila can’t read the katakana scrawled on the window to the shop, but she follows Sara in anyway, where Sara sidles up to the counter and points to an item on the picture menu behind the cashier.

Their stilted exchange is capped off by the cashier sliding two little cups of soft-looking pink balls, dusted with sugar, over the counter. Sara follows it by handing her a handful of yen.

With a smile, Sara takes both the cups in her hands, and turns back to Mila. She holds one out expectantly.

Mila looks from the cup to Sara’s face, and her attention remains there. Sara’s violet eyes are deep, endless beneath the dim lighting in the little shop, and Mila forgets to look anywhere else.

Sara smiles a little wider. It makes her eyes crinkle a little at the corners, in the sweetest way.

“ _Dolcezza_ ,” Sara says quietly, and the word might be foreign to Mila’s ears but it manages to pull her out of her trance, “the first time I had these - _daifuku_ \- was three years ago, when I came to Japan for the NHK.”

Mila doesn’t quite trust herself to say anything, but she wordlessly takes the cup from Sara’s hand, and brings the sweet to her lips. Powdered sugar coats her fingertips, and the sugary smell of the confection is a destructive force to her resolve.

Mila bites into it, eyes trained on Sara’s expectant (and slightly cocky) gaze until they flutter shut in bliss.

“Mm,” Mila whines, “this is _amazing_.”

“I know, right?” Sara says, proud, and takes Mila’s elbow to lead her out of the shop and back out onto the streets of Osaka, because she apparently has more to show Mila before the night is out.

Mila doesn’t mind in the least.

 

 

IV.

Michele Crispino is kind of like a nightmare, but with a mouth.

Of course, Mila would never tell Sara this, because Sara’s still horribly defensive of her brother, in a way that Mila doesn’t understand.

Michele stands at the other end of the room, by a window, hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks. Emil Nekola hovers by his side, chattering. as Mila watches, Emil says something that he can’t even finish because he’s laughing too hard, and in turn it makes Michele’s cheeks heat up. He looks like he’s trying his damned hardest not to break into laughter as well, but… he’s kind of failing.

He and Sara have the same sort of laugh, Mila notes absently. They both do the thing with their nose where it scrunches a little first, and then the sound comes out.

Michele looks a little less like a nightmare when he’s laughing. Maybe it’s because when he’s laughing, he’s too busy to glare at every male within ten feet of his sister.

Sara sidles up to Mila as if summoned by her thoughts. (But really, that’s not plausible, because Mila had been thinking about Sara for the past hour and she only now deigns to make an appearance.)

“Enjoying yourself?” Sara questions, sipping lightly at the glass in her hand. It’s half gone, and there’s a slight sparkle in Sara’s eye, more so than normal. A blush sits high on her cheeks, but that could very well be makeup. (Especially because Sara’s dark skin makes it a little harder to identify when she’s blushing.)

“Immensely,” Mila responds. “So much fun. I’m just having a blast.”

Sara’s fiddling with the stem of her flute. In a sudden movement, she puts the glass down on a nearby table, and turns to face Mila directly.

“Spare me a dance?” She gestures to the dance floor with her chin, where there are a sparse two couples taking advantage of the light foxtrot playing, and Mila feels something stir in her chest.

“Of course,” she says happily, placing her flute down next to Sara’s, and holding out a hand. Sara takes it, and Mila leads her backwards towards the floor.

Mila guides their clasped hands upright, and lets her free hand fall to Sara’s waist. It only makes sense, because Mila has a couple inches on Sara, but Sara doesn’t seem to mind. She hums to the tune of the dance as they start with a new phrase in the music, and Mila can’t help but smile at it.

“You’re a splendid dancer,” Sara compliments, after a few measures of silent steps, and Mila flushes with the praise. Her skin tingles where Sara has her fingers around Mila’s arm.

“Thank you,” she says, trying not to look like she’s preening, “and so are you. Do you dance ballroom often?”

“Oh, sometimes, but Mickey kept scaring off my partners after lessons, so I gave up on trying.” She shrugs. “I like to think I retained it pretty well, though.”

Mila laughs. “Pretty well, I’d say,” she says, and the music shifts then, into a faster tempo. Mila leads them right into it, and Sara goes willingly.

Between keeping her feet in time with the music, and trying not to focus _too_ hard on how close they’re standing, how close their faces are, Mila makes the grave mistake of letting her eyes roam Sara’s face.

As she should be expecting, by now, she really _should_ see this coming, she gets stuck on Sara’s eyes.

Sara looks like she’s about to say something, lips half parted, in the middle of taking a breath - but she exhales, something shifts in her expression that Mila can’t place, and maybe it’s because all Mila can think about is how _beautiful_ Sara’s eyes are. How expressive. How lively.

She feels a weight on the hand that’s intertwined with Sara’s, and a weight against her arm, and she realizes with a jolt that it’s because Sara’s pushing her gently. And then, as she blinks a little more, she realizes it’s because she’s stopped moving completely, too lost in thought.

A giggle bubbles out of her. “Oops,” she murmurs to herself, under her breath. She tries to pick up the music again, wherever the band is now, but when it becomes obvious she’s a little too distracted, Sara takes over their steps. Mila’s all too happy to follow her lead.

“Had some to drink?” Sara teases.

Mila only nods.

There’s a tap on her shoulder. Mila twists to see who it is, and the familiar eyes are the first thing, second being the suspicion painted in them.

Michele opens his mouth, clearly about to say something that Mila might or might not (will not) like, but Sara claps a dainty hand over his mouth. Her nails are painted a deep blue that match her dress wonderfully.

“No thank you, Mickey,” Sara says kindly, “please take this time to drink some more champagne and maybe find a corner to make out with Emil in, okay?”

She smiles, and Michele gapes a little, and Sara whisks Mila away, turning, spinning.

Mila doesn’t know what to say.

Sara sighs, but she’s still smiling, so it’s okay. “I love Mickey, you know? But sometimes I just like having time to myself.”

She looks up at Mila, blinks idly, and Mila has never been more thankful for their height difference, because if it means Sara looks at her like _that_ through her lashes, she’d gladly tell her younger self to shut up and deal with the growth spurt without complaints.

It doesn’t take much from there to convince Sara to dance through the next song.

 

 

V.

Yuri’s sweet sixteen birthday bash is lovingly planned by Mila, Viktor, and Georgi over a number of painstaking mornings and nights outside of practice, mostly before, because Yuri likes to be fashionably late. (Or maybe he likes seeing how much he can get away with.)

Georgi brings a dark purple spiral notebook and a black pen he found in Yakov’s office, and they write down all their spectacular ideas. Georgi even deigns to write down Vitya’s idea to install a stripper pole just so he can get Yuuri drunk and on it.

He even writes down Mila’s suggestion to have a wide selection of drinks, and by that, she really means three choices: CapriSun, beer, and tequila (for the shots).

Which is how, on the 1st of March, she happens to find herself staring at a selection of beer cans and a tall bottle of tequila, and a stack of CapriSun packets haphazardly pushed to the side of the kitchen counter.

She selects a particular can of beer with no dents in it (she’s picky like that) and pours it into a plastic cup.

She eyes the CapriSun. Then makes one of those lightning decisions that, eighty-four percent of the time, lead to something bad. But she’s counting on that sixteen percent.

She’s pouring Strawberry Kiwi into her beer when she feels a warmth next to her.

Mila looks up. It’s Sara. She smiles brightly. “Do you like the party?”

Sara nods. “It’s… lovely.”

(There are uneven streamers hung up all over the apartment, some cheeky love ballad playing from the speaker that Georgi hooked his phone up to, a pile of gifts in one corner of the room that Yuri has already begun curiously chipping away at, an array of nutritionist-approved foods because they’re on-season, but two boxes of Papa John’s because Yuri had demanded it, and nobody wanted to say no.)

Something wet trickles down Mila’s bare leg, and she looks down in mild surprise to find her strawberry kiwi CapriSun leaking in a small stream off the counter.

Sara doesn’t laugh, she doesn’t. She giggles, though. And Mila throws the rest of the CapriSun pouch away to pick up her beautiful plastic cup concoction.

She takes one sip, and it’s not entirely awful, but she also mixed some questionable foods earlier, so her taste buds might already just be dead.

“I didn’t know what to get Yuri,” Sara begins, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “but I was shopping the other day, and I saw some really cute leopard print leggings, and the first thing I thought was _Yuri would love this_.”

The image of Yuri in leopard print leggings fuses itself with the image of Yuri in his well-loved leopard print jacket, and it assaults Mila’s mind so hard she has to press a palm to her eyes to banish the fashion disaster from her mind’s eye.

Sara seems ignorant of Mila’s pain. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

Mila groans in response. Sara happily sips at her drink. Mila suspects that it’s water, which is the only reason Sara’s not as tipsy as Mila currently is.

Thinking she has to fix that, Mila begins preparing another beer/CapriSun concoction, and pokes Sara in the elbow to get her attention.

“Hm?” Sara turns to Mila and tilts her head to the side.

The fluorescent kitchen lighting makes her violet eyes look unreal. Are purple eyes even a thing? Is that even possible? Is Sara an alien of some sort, then?

Mila could well stare at Sara’s eyes forever. She could stare, and pick out all the little flecks of black in them, could watch her do nothing but blink for days. _Days_.

As it is, it’s thirty seconds before something cold begins dripping down Mila’s leg again, and this time, it’s pacific cooler flavored CapriSun.

Wordlessly, she offers the mostly drained packet of CapriSun to Sara, who accepts it graciously with an amused smile on her face. Then she remembers the cup sitting on the counter, and picks it up to hand Sara her drink, but proceeds to immediately forget which is hers and which is Sara’s, because now she has two red Solo cups in two hands.

Sara plucks one of them out of Mila’s hand.

To her credit, she manages a long sip of the drink without spitting it back in Mila’s face. Instead, she gracefully turns to the sink and spits it down the drain.

She wipes her mouth with her hand. Her lipstick smears, just a little, and Mila has the sudden urge to lick it off.

That’s disgusting. Lipstick tastes awful. Mila should wipe it all off for her, and _then_ kiss her.

 

 

\+ VI.

Sara eventually does get tired of dropping not-so-subtle hints. Sara eventually does manage to seek Mila out, alone, and tell her as much.

Sara eventually does jump Mila’s bones like she’s touch-starved, but it’s fine, because Mila really, _really_ doesn’t seem to mind.

She’s not sure where the whole scene went from _confession_ to _I want to suck your face off_ but it’s not a change that she’s complaining about.

She has a hand on Mila’s waist and one carding through Mila’s hair and Mila’s hand is halfway up her shirt when she finally detaches their faces.

“As much as I love this,” she begins, out of breath, “we should probably do it somewhere that’s _not_ visible to literally anyone who walks by.”

Mila nips at her lower lip. It’s extremely tempting, but Sara _does_ have a sense of pride and dignity that she would like to uphold.

“I don’t mind,” Mila says, continuing to try to reattach her lips to Sara, and she doesn’t really seem to care exactly where that is. She settles on the juncture of Sara’s neck and shoulder. It sends shivers across her skin.

“You’re shameless,” Sara admonishes, but with enough adoration that Mila’s lips only curve against Sara’s skin, making it even harder to refuse.

Sara stops fiddling with Mila’s hair (it’s so _red_ , so _bright_ , how is that even _possible_ -) to slowly push her chin up and away. Mila’s head falls back against the wall with a light thud. She pouts.

Sara makes the mistake of fixing her eyes on Mila’s, because then she’s completely gone. The stark contrast of blue eyes and the red hair framing Mila’s face is absolutely everything Sara never knew she needed to see, every day, all the time, and _god_ how had she gone so long without it? Blue, so blue. So much blue. Light blue. A darker ring of blue around the outsides of her irises.

Mila blinks, and Sara is whipped back to actual reality.

(Mila’s eyes are still blue.)

“Эй, Баба -” Yuri’s lazy drawl cuts off very abruptly, accompanied by the sound of a foot hitting a door frame.

Before Sara can turn completely in the enclosure of Mila’s arms to see the expression on Yuri’s face, he’s shrieking.

When Sara catches sight of his face, he’s slapped both hands over his eyes. He curses, loudly, in Russian. Sara doesn’t have to be fluent to know the gist of what he’s saying.

“ _That’s disgusting, get a room_ ,” he wails, and then spins and stomps off. He forgets to take his hands off his eyes, and they hear him (very obnoxiously) bump into a wall before remember he has to actually see.

Mila laughs.

Sara thinks she really, really likes it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading I love you 
> 
> if you also happen to really like these two sappy ice girlfriends  
> or maybe ice boyfriends  
> you should ....come talk to me......... [please..](its-nochillforov.tumblr.com)


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